


Music is the shorthand of emotion

by wholockedcellist



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-31
Updated: 2013-10-31
Packaged: 2017-12-31 02:14:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1026087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wholockedcellist/pseuds/wholockedcellist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has been gone for a year, and John is not in good shape. The reunion does not go as Sherlock expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Music is the shorthand of emotion

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is the first fic that I've posted, so feedback and all that shizz will be appreciated. Also, I am not sure how often I will update, especially toward the end of November/ beginning of December. Enjoy!
> 
> Allons-y!

A greying blonde head weaves through the cemetery to once again stand before the dark tombstone. His lip quivers as he sets out the blanket to sit. “H-Hey, Sherlock. How are you today? I’ve just come from a session with Ella, but of course you know that. She says I need to say what I had wanted to say before you – before your fall,” his voice was cracking at this point and tears streaked his face. “I think I’m finally ready for that. Sherlock, I really wish I could have said this before, then maybe you wouldn’t have… God, how do I say this? I love you, Okay? I have loved you for so long, and now I never get to see you again, tell you in person. Even when I wanted to throttle you, you were my best friend and so much more. I miss you so much. Every time I see someone pass with a curly mop or a long dark coat, I can feel another piece of myself crumbling away. Please Sherlock, for me, just don’t be dead.”

 

 

Watching the CCTV footage from his room in his brother’s flat, Sherlock felt his heart break again. John – brave, wonderful John – should not have to go through this because of a mistake that he had made. Even if it took the rest of his life, Sherlock vowed to make it up to his doctor. He continued on, eyes glued to the laptop screen, as the broken man limped away.

_He is breaking, Mycroft. –SH_

 

The inevitable call came not ten seconds later. _Sherlock, stay there. He is under constant surveillance; he will not be able to do anything… destructive while on my watch._ Destructive? What was John planning to do? No. God, no, he can’t. Anything but _that._

“Good-bye, Mycroft,” he cuts his brother off halfway through a sentence he was not listening to. He leaves for the flat he has not seen in person for nearly a year.

 

 

John stares at the gun in his hand, contemplating. Should he join in his best friend’s fate? Was there anything worth living for anymore? He knew if Sherlock were here, the younger man would insult his intelligence for even considering the act. But he wasn’t. He never would be again. The thought settled it in the doctor’s mind.

 

“Sorry about the mess, Mrs Hudson.” He undid the safety. Letting out a shuttering breath, he lifted the pistol into his mouth.

 

“ _John!”_

_Great, now I’m hallucinating._ The greying man opened his eyes to greet the hypnotising blue-green of his former partner’s. He saw there something he had only ever seen once before. _Fear._ It barely registered as he forced his eyes shut again. It wouldn’t do to keep going solely on the fact that he might see a version of his dead flatmate again. “I’ll see you soon, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock only saw despair in the eyes of his beloved doctor. When he shut them again, he knew he had to move, or it would be like dying all over again. Wrenching the gun from the other man’s hands, he flipped the safety back and slid the pistol into the back of his trousers. John’s face was soon in his hands.

“John, look at me. Damn it, look! I am right here; I am alive. Please-“ gradually the broken man opened his bloodshot eyes.

 

“It can’t be. You can’t be real. How-?”

 

“I faked it. The whole thing was a set-up, so I could get Moriarty, but it backfired. I am so, so sorry John. This is my fault.”

 

“Shut up,” the shorter man breathed before closing his eyes again. “Just shut up, you enormous dick! I thought you were dead for a fucking year, Sherlock – a whole bloody year. Do you have any idea – no, you know what, get out. Get the hell out of this flat and don’t come back. Just – go,” his voice faltered.

 

“O-okay,” the taller man whispered. _Angry is better than dead,_ he thought to himself as he left the only place he called home.

 

_Angry is infinitely better than dead._


End file.
